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No more I know, I wish I did,
“ I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree;
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,
The little babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
I've heard, the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant's blood:
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
if to the pond you go, The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
The baby looks at you again.
And some had sworn on oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass,-it shook upon the ground!
But all do still aver
The little babe is buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
I cannot tell how this may be:
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground;
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,
“ Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
The knight had ridden down from Wensley moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turned aside towards a vassal's door,
And“ Bring another horse!” he cried aloud,
“ Another horse!" -That shout the vassal heard Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And saddled his best steed, a comely gray; And, when the little breezes make
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair; “ Oh misery! oh misery!"
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head;
Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
And what this place might be I then inquired.
But horse and man are vanished, one and all; And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
Soon did the knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall But now the knight beholds him lying dead.
With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd,
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer-days were long, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Sir Walter led his wondering paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.
The moving accident is not my trade: And now, too happy for repose or rest,
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: (Never had living man such joyful lot!)
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three aspens
at three corners of a square; Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.
Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green;
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
The shepherd stopped, and that same story told
She leaves these objects to a slow decay, Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
That what we are, and have been, may be known; A jolly place,” said he, “ in times of old !
But, at the coming of the milder day, But something ails it now; the spot is cursed.
These monuments shall all be overgrown. You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood
One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, Some say that they are beeches, others elms Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride The finest palace of a hundred realms!
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."
Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on
revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
July 13, 1798.
Five years have passed; five summers,with the length This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs Some say that here a murder has been done,
With a sweet inland murmur.-Once again And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, l've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, Which on a wild secluded scene impress That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect What thoughts must through the creature's brain
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. have past!
The day is come when I again repose Even from the top-most stone, upon the steep,
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view Are but three bounds—and look, sir, at this last These plots of cottage ground, these orchard-tufts, -O master! it has been a cruel leap.
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb And in my simple mind we cannot tell
The wild green landscape. Once again I see What cause the Hart might have to love this place, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines And come and make his death-bed near the well. Of sportive wood run wild;. these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
up, in silence, from among the trees! Lulled by this fountain in the summer-tide; With some uncertain notice, as might seem, This water was perhaps the first he drank
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods; When he had wandered from his mother's side.
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone. In April here beneath the scented thorn
Though absent long, He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
These forms of beauty have not been to me And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, The sun on drearier hollow never shone;
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; So will it be, as I have often said,
And passing even into my purer mind, Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone."
With tranquil restoration :-feelings too Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
To them I may have owed another gift, That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world The pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before,
Is lightened :--that serene and blessed mood, This is no common waste, no common gloom;
In which the affections gently lead us on.. But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
And even the motion of our human blood
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That after many wanderings, many years
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, In darkness, and amid the many shapes
If I were not thus taught, should I the more Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch Osylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, The language of my former heart, and read How often has my spirit turned to thee! [thought, My former pleasures in the shooting lights
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while With many recognitions dim and faint,
May I behold in thee what I was once, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, The picture of the mind revives again:
Knowing that Nature never did betray While here I stand, not only with the sense
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts Through all the years of this our life, to lead That in this moment there is life and food
From joy to joy: for she can so inform For future years. And so I dare to hope, [first The mind that is within us, so impress Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when With quietness and beauty, and so feed I came among these hills; when like a roe
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all Wherever Nature led: more like a man
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! theu, By thought supplied, or any interest
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and deer,
greater than he seems:
The poor Old Man
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
From evil speaking: rancour, never sought, =;* Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. The region of his inner spirit teems
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I or With vital sounds and monitory gleams
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous ca: Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
And thus from day to day my little boat (thought: He the seven birds hath seen, that never part; Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. | Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, Blessings be with them-and eternal praise, up. And counted them: and oftentimes will start Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares :
For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds, The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 2e Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, To season my fireside with personal talk,
Sept. 3, 1803. Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Earth has not any thing to shew more fair: Or neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, A sight so touching in its majesty : Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, This city now doth like a garment wear These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Better than such discourse doth silence long, Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Albert To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
Never did sun more beautifully steep In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 33 Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
The world is too much with us; late and soon, The languid mind into activity.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Little we see in Nature that is ours; 1995 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.” We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me! The winds that will be howling at all hours,
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; es More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; And part far from them :-sweetest melodies
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be Are those which are by distance made more sweet; A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OP
Two voices are there; one is of the sea, Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice: Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven; Matter wherein right voluble I am:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be CONCLUDED.
That mountain floods should thunder as before, Nor can I not believe but that hereby
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote And neither awful voice be heard by thee!
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.